Monday, August 6, 2012

Poems from Folks Magazine - 1978

Poems from Folks Magazine
Coventry folk magazine edited by Pete Willow 78 / 79

Q OF Q'S by Pete Rigg

The Qizzard of Quixel has mislaid his quill
In a delinquent moment of thought!
He suspect that he left it just here on the sill
but he isn't as young as he ought.

Profounding the purpose he ponders his choice:
To confess himself victim of fate?
Or retreat to a corner and practice his voice -
And hope he's not left it too late!


Preparation for Progress - by Pete Willow

See the waterfall give way
hear the sudden cease of sound
feel the humid beast of day
pray upon the crumbling ground.

Smell the roses taste the fungus
don't stop there - there's more to come
use the senses dropped among us
cosmic anatomic bomb

there's more to this than meets the eye
the nose the tongue the nerve the ear
we've many more in store set by
for revelation when it's near

for evolution now its here.


HYPOTHESIS - by Pete Willow

the telephone voice is in the mind
the speaker is not really there
the misty source you cannot find
between your ears beneath the hair

A personality to sell
without the visual technique
commended by a ringing bell
yu sit and listen to him speak

he imitates your every friend
beyond perception of the eye
and also strangers with no end
of propostions to imply

a telephone is tangible
obtained by those who wish to show
that though life is material
they do believe in GPO

OFFSEASON by Nick Lawrence

The last crisp packet flutters slowly to the ground,
The streets all lie deserted, devoid of human sounds;
Soon the winter winds come rushing through
all these untidy tired ports we knew;
summer months of wear and tear
Leave paths for only sheep to stand and stare;
Rocks crumbled by the dust of hurried feet
are washed down again by driving sleet
chilled by the icy northern blasts
tearing down man's futile summer tasks;
I see the land that used to be
washed down again by rain and sea.

I breath sharp air with salty tang
as all around me blow lazy summer sands
soon jagged ciffs and sheltered caves
are set free in autumnal green and mauve;
once again the fulmar flies
on stiff-winged swoops and lofty glides;
cliff-tops bare and gullies harsh
sweep rain from moorland into marsh

And suddnely I know I've been shown
all such beauty is not for my eyes alone;
If like me you'd stayed and seen
The winter moon on wet sands gleam
and heard the thundering of the waves
whistling with the wind through Merlin's cave,
You'd see that man is just a passing phase
that time and patience will erase
for the wave that sweeps the human race
out of time and out of place
will leave the rocky cliffs and sandy bays
for only the eyes of sheep to gaze;

Fowever with the changing tides.....

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